Barrow Fields and all the world was devils

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on the fifth day -- or so he thought; he had quite lost count -- armand stretched himself beneath the cold light of an afternoon sun and went in search of some oddity to entertain himself. he wore a new winter ruff of auburn gold, and his eyes glinted like hard gems in a starve-hewn face. the vain child was proud of his new hips' hollows, the jut of his ribs against his pelt, the point of his ankles. these spelled beauty of him; the knobs of his spine when he laid down hurt him, and this pain brought satisfaction.
armand was slowly starving, and soon he would be dead. this, a thought which had once comforted him, now brought the boy a pure delight; he expended the energy he should use to hunt in pursuit of foolish things, and today he busied himself digging into the strange mounds, belting out an aria in his high clear voice as he looked for absolutely nothing in particular.[/tr][/td][/table]

your writing is to die for amg

far, far, far, far - more distance than he ever has crossed in his life does ysengrin flee over, finding the wind in his fur and the simple heat-cold of autumn sun far more pleasant than the dying croaks of dead animals. his pelt had shifted from thin into moderately thicker than it had been before and this, too, pleased the boy, for it meant that he would not spend the whole of the winter shivering in some hovel.

high-held tunes drew ysen's attention near and he bounds, scampering over not-so-gracefully to investigate. there! there does he find a fine boy, slender and waifish as his own frame. by scent alone does ysen identify the boy as such, for he is beautiful and handsome at the same time. but he is starving, this ysen notices, and yet he expells his energy unto worthless objects.

ah, but the music he makes does soothe the soul, so the boy supposes, and thus he approaches with his own birdish warble, joining in with harmony.

i love yours! <3

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armand did not immediately hear the other; his senses drew up his head and he looked full into the face of a lovely paintd vision, decadence that begged to be immortalized. and then the boy heard the voice of the other, this slender, sweet-voiced creature who had surely come from the sea. armand turned to face the stranger more fully and lifted his voice to twine with the other's notes.
when their aria had faded, armand regarded the other with a gentle smile, and stepped toward him. his eyes drifted without shame over the newcomer's body, and when he finished the feast of his gaze, armand tipped the singer with a little wink. "do you know what you serenade?"
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he is not noticed until later, but the boy beside him strengthens his voice and ysen falls back, content to harmonize with the sweet notes. the song is a siren-piece and he does not know the name; it is beautiful all the same, and ysen joins in the digging, meeting the youth's gaze and then turning away, still singing.
when they do finish he abandons the mounds to roam his eyes about the boy's frame, unabashedly admiring the gold of his fur, the way his locks tumble and fall neatly into place - he is a masterpiece than ysen paints into his mind.
"i serenade the sea, and the wind, and the brine of sea-salt rock, and i serenade you, surely. might i know your name, nightingale?"

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the sylph's voice was boyish, but his eyes held the nature of one who has seen much, and the gaze armand drank into himself as the other proferred sweet words. they looked upon one another openly, with admiration, and beneath the approving stare of the other did the aureate boy find himself straightening with pride. such lovely things! such winning lies!
armand gave a little shake of his head, tonguetip snaking out to wet his lips, before they formed there a simple sentence" "you serenade death." for was not this boy, himself, the very embodiment of such, a burning emaciation beneath the wintry sun? armand laughed then, a truthful sound, and waited for the other to speak in the honeyed tones again.[/tr][/td][/table]

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he watches, his gaze never once leaving the auburn-furred wonder's. not his eyes, not his body, no, for ysen wants only to burn this image into his memory - even if it is to scar his mind forever and raise welts of flame-kissed treasures in its wake - the boy wishes to remember. when he is old, and when his bones know not how to move as they once did, he desires to tell the little children about this one. a youth, like him, who sang til the nightingales cried and the earth stopped spinning to hear his voice.
you serenade death. says the nightingale, for that is what ysen has taken to calling him, simply and quickly. he pauses to think on this, for he wishes to recall every single word this angel has spoken to him. "does death mind?" and now, the dreamspinner is quick to reply, rejoicing in death's laugh. "death has a beautiful face, and an enchanting voice. you compel the tune of the birds to become flat - in the wake of death, the world will be grey, and this boy seeks to find the colour that death brings."

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armand laughed, a mad, glittering sound that tolled above their heads at the other's flattery. and still it touched his heart, that this odd and lovely creature should find succor in his voice. "death does not mind," he told the other, "and the color death gives is scarlet." for he was merely a whore, like a wandering strumpet cast from her servicebed like so much flotsam. the gaze of this wolf, young but with agelessness behind his vivid eyes — armand drew hope and strength from this vision. "are you the pilgrim come to seek death?" the auburn child whispered in inquiry. he saw no such intentions in his fellow, but armand had been incorrect before.[/tr][/td][/table]

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death does not mind, says the other, and the boy delights in this - he is an angel veiled by a name of his own choosing much like ysengrin himself and oh! he brings such interest to the wolf from yonder lands! ah, scarlet, known as crimson, as sanguine fluid, as desire and war - death thinks to be ambitious and yet it is the truth, for the boy does sense truth in the words of the other. in the passage of death does the world burn but ah-ah-ah!
ysengrin has never been a creature born to safety; indeed it is the safe path that clouds the mind and leads to terrible, terrible stagnation.
"am i, oh, am i? this wolf here is but a weaver of words, seeking the finest tales and the sweetest songs - and here i am thinking i have found both at once! pilgrim indeed, yes; surely death has stories unshared before?"
he- ah, he is filled with wondrous purpose! go and tell the nations, they said to him, spread dreams and weave lifetimes through your voice! he is bound to them, and bound to his lord and lady through this calling. but he has enticed death to stop his carriage for just a-while, simply to hear a tale.

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so yes, it was true — the other sought great tales! and armand looked upon his fellow, and knew that no matter what he told, it would not rankle the boy, nor dissuade him. i was once a whore, he wished to say, but it was so cheap! and a cliche — of course he had been such. did not the sway of his hips and the filthy violence promised in his gaze promise these things? "i was head of a coven, and we worshipped death, but in the end, death found all of us except for me."
armand sought to seduce the other with the beginning of this tale; he caught his tonguetip betwixt his teeth and looked out to sea. "i regret this every day, my friend."[/tr][/td][/table]

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ysen nods for his companion to begin, and after - hesitation, perhaps - the boy starts, and ysen latches onto his every words. he sways with the melody and he listens, intently, lost in the beginning of the tale. i was head of a coven, and we worshipped death, but in the end, death found all of us except for me.
he cannot help it, he is helplessly intrigued! and he, too, looks out to the sea, to the crashing waves and the wind-stormed rocks lingering in the bay, and he sucks in a gasp of breath. "what drives death to such regret?" perhaps a simple what happened? is more appropriate, or even a muted noise of curiosity. but he is a storyteller, and to tell a story is to bring forth emotion! so he bites his tongue and asks the question, and is silent for the answer.

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